Chapter 105: The List (25)
Lucien drifted off not long after Vivien’s dramatic departure, exhaustion settling over him like a heavy blanket.
The infirmary’s herbal smell, the faint rustle of parchment, and the gentle tap of nurses’ shoes as they paced had all faded away into nothingness.
His head sank into the pillow, and the next thing he knew.
He was back at the estate.
The orchard stretched wide, branches laden with ripe, red apples that shimmered in the late afternoon sun.
He found himself halfway up a ladder, basket hooked to his elbow, plucking apples one by one.
It was warm, peaceful, mundane, even.
He hummed softly, content in a way he hadn’t been since before his reincarnation.
And then an apple spoke.
“Really, this is what you dream of?”
Lucien froze mid-pluck.
He looked at the apple in his hand, round and perfectly red, yet vibrating faintly with a voice that was all too familiar.
His eyes widened.
“…You’ve got to be kidding me.”
The apple chuckled, the sound oddly rich for a piece of fruit.
“Most humans, when granted a dream, tend toward the extravagant. Palaces. Glory. Love. The human saying is to ‘dream big,’ after all. But you, Lucien, are content with… apple-picking?”
Lucien scowled.
“I didn’t choose this dream. Don’t make it sound like I deliberately climbed into bed thinking, Yes, apples, that’s what I want in my subconscious tonight.”
“Still,” the apple mused, its skin gleaming unnaturally under the dreamlight, “there’s a strange humility to it. You could be raging about revenge, painting your sleep with blood and fire. Yet here you are, reaching for fruit. Perhaps… this is better. Calmer. Simpler.”
Lucien gave the apple a flat look.
“I don’t exactly think I need your analysis of my unconscious choices. Besides, what’s wrong with apples?”
The apple pulsed in his hand, as though amused.
“Nothing at all. Of all the things you could dream, why this? Others dream of conquering empires or defying fate. You dream of chores.”
“I’d call it peace of mind,” Lucien shot back, plucking another apple and dropping it into his basket with deliberate force.
“You know what they say, revenge is a dish best served cold. If I keep thinking about it, I’ll go insane. Maybe it’s better this way.”
The apple gave a low hum.
“Perhaps.”
Lucien tightened his grip around it, glaring at the shiny surface.
“Says the… whatever-you-are, hanging out in my dreams like a parasite. You ever think about that?”
“Constantly,” the apple said with a sarcastic lilt.
“And I must say, being turned into produce is a new low, even for me.”
Lucien blinked, momentarily thrown, before snorting.
“…So what are you, exactly? A cosmic critic? An apple with a god complex?”
The fruit gave an audible click of its nonexistent tongue.
“We can debate my metaphysics later. For now, ah, I think you’re waking up.”
Lucien stiffened.
“What? No, wait, what do you mean?”
The orchard around him rippled like water.
The ladder wobbled beneath his feet.
The apple’s weight grew heavier, hotter in his palm.
“Wake up, Lucien,” the apple said, its voice dropping to a whisper.
“You have… an audience.”
The world shattered like glass.
Lucien’s eyes snapped open.
The first thing he saw was a half-circle of young students, their notepads raised, pens ready, aprons neatly tied as though they were preparing for a demonstration.
They all stared at him with clinical interest.
“…Huh?”
He croaked.
He turned his head, and the second thing he saw was Phillip, propped up on his bed, being spoon-fed porridge by none other than Vivien.
She dabbed his lips gently with a napkin, her face composed and utterly unbothered by the gathering.
Lucien blinked.
“Huh?”
Phillip didn’t even glance his way, too busy accepting his next spoonful of porridge like a pampered child.
Lucien looked to the other side of the room, only to meet the calm, authoritative gaze of the head nurse.
She cleared her throat, addressing the apron-clad students as if Lucien wasn’t mid-crisis.
“Now then, class,” she announced, gesturing toward Lucien’s bed.
“As you can see, today’s volunteer has already been prepared. We’ll begin shortly.”
Lucien’s head snapped back to her.
“…Huh!?”
The students scribbled furiously in their notes, nodding as though this were perfectly ordinary.
He sat up in his bed, gripping the sheets tightly as his eyes darted between them all.
“Volunteer? What, what do you mean volunteer? I didn’t sign up for- what, what are you planning, HUH!?”
Each “huh” grew louder, sharper, more panicked.
Vivien calmly blew on Phillip’s next spoonful of porridge.
Phillip opened his mouth compliantly, as though the entire affair unfolding a bed over had nothing to do with him.
Lucien’s voice rose, a final strangled cry echoing across the infirmary.
“HUUUUUH!?”
***
Lucien sat stiffly in bed, the circle of students watching him like vultures in white aprons.
His shoulder still throbbed faintly with every small movement, but he’d grown used to the dull ache, at least enough that he hadn’t been expecting what came next.
The head nurse, tall and severe in her crisp uniform, turned to face the students.
She spoke with the confidence of someone giving a lecture on the weather, utterly calm.
“Now then, class. Observe our volunteer. His left shoulder presents with significant swelling, the humeral head visibly displaced anteriorly, indicating a partial dislocation. Note the abnormal contour.”
Several students scribbled furiously, their quills scratching like cicadas.
Lucien blinked.
‘My what now?’
The nurse gestured toward his arm, which hung suspended in a sling tied to the bedframe.
“The swelling is due to inflammatory response and muscular guarding. If this condition were left unattended, the patient would risk limited range of motion, chronic instability, and eventual degenerative changes to the joint capsule.”
Lucien gawked.
“…My shoulder’s gonna degenerate?”
The students murmured with interest.
One raised his hand.
“Ma’am, what are the recommended protocols when addressing such a condition?”
“Good question,” the nurse said approvingly.
“First, immobilization. Second, controlled reduction of the joint. Third, prevention of complications through rest and physiotherapy. But-”
She turned, eyes gleaming.
“-in the field, you may not have the luxury of long explanations or slow maneuvers. Thus, you must be decisive. Swift.”
Lucien’s instincts prickled.
He sat up straighter.
“Wait. Swift about what, exactly?”
The nurse ignored him, addressing the students again.
“Before we proceed, I must note for our volunteer’s sake: per Academy policy, medical treatment is included in his tuition. He does not need to worry about payment. However-”
She flicked open a clipboard and tapped it.
“-the documents he signed upon admission to the institute include a clause that permits his use as a teaching volunteer where applicable.”
Lucien’s jaw dropped.
“I didn’t sign any-”
“Yes, you did.”
She cut him off crisply, flipping the page with a snap.
“Page four, subsection three, paragraph seven.”
Lucien’s blood went cold.
“Who even reads page four of a contract!?”
The students chuckled softly.
The nurse clapped her hands once, brisk.
“Now then! I’ll require an assistant. Lumiere.”
From the semicircle of aprons, one girl stepped forward.
Blonde hair tied neatly back, eyes bright with that almost irritating glow of pure-hearted resolve.
Even in the dull uniform of a trainee medic, Lumiere looked as though someone had cut her out of a stained-glass window and set her walking.
Lucien’s eyes widened.
‘The heroine.’
The same girl who had stood in the medical tent when he’d first been injured back during the aftermath of the aptitude test.
Now she was in an apron.
And she was smiling warmly at him.
She reached his bedside, gently took his right hand, and squeezed it reassuringly.
“It’s all right. You’ll be fine.”
Lucien stared at her, dumbfounded.
“…Are you sure..?”
Before Lumiere could answer, the nurse launched into her explanation.
“Now then, both the student assistant and the patient should understand: the shoulder is partially dislocated. Reduction is necessary. This will be… uncomfortable.”
Lucien squinted.
“…Reduction?”
The nurse continued briskly.
“Reduction simply means realigning the joint head back into the cavity.”
Lucien blinked, uncomprehending.
“…The what into the what now?”
“It means we’ll be popping the ball back into the socket,” one of the students whispered helpfully while sketching a diagram of Lucien’s misery.
Lucien went pale.
“Popping? Popping?! No, I did not consent to any kind of popping!”
The nurse raised a finger, lecturing tone sharp.
“An important note for all of you: while this procedure is relatively harmless, patients often resist if told in advance. Thus, one must be subtle. Distract them. Then act swiftly before they put two and two together.”
Lucien froze. His head whipped toward her, eyes wide.
“Wait. Two and two together? What are you-”
He never finished.
Because in the blink of an eye, the nurse seized his injured arm, rotated, and-
SNAP.
The joint slammed back into place with a sickeningly clean clunk.
Pain shot through Lucien’s body like molten lightning.
His back arched, his good hand clawing at the sheets. His face twisted as though he’d been struck by a thunderbolt.
“AAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”
The scream ripped out of him so loud the rafters quivered.
Somewhere down the corridor, patients clutched their ears.
Birds outside the infirmary windows took flight in a panic.
Lumiere held his hand the entire time, her serene smile never faltering even as his nails nearly dug crescents into her palm.
The students all scribbled furiously, murmuring things like “Excellent reduction speed!” and “Observe patient resistance reflex!”
The nurse, perfectly calm, patted Lucien’s re-slung shoulder.
“And there we are. Successful realignment.”
Lucien slumped back against the bed, tears pricking the corners of his eyes, his face white as chalk.
His breath came in ragged gasps, the echo of his scream still rattling the windows.
The nurse turned to the class, smiling faintly.
“See? Textbook.”
Lucien managed one hoarse croak: “H-h-huh…?”
